


Irrepressible

by RonsGirlFriday



Series: Perfectly Imperfect Percy [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkwardness, Community: HPFT, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humor, POV Percy Weasley, Percy Weasley is a Dork, Romance, Sexual Humor, Smut, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23307145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonsGirlFriday/pseuds/RonsGirlFriday
Summary: “Stay.”It’s half command, half plea, and as far as Percy’s concerned at this very moment, what the lady wants, the lady gets. She’s looking at him with unmistakable desire, and he thinks that if she looked at him this way and asked him to dive headfirst off a cliff he would do it.This is not the time for Percy to be overthinking things.Get in the game, Weasley..
Relationships: Audrey Weasley/Percy Weasley
Series: Perfectly Imperfect Percy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543966
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	Irrepressible

**Author's Note:**

> _A few things:_   
>  _1\. This is as much a humor as it is a smut. If you're going to have a problem with me cracking jokes and going off on tangents in the middle of people thrusting or otherwise getting down, this may not be for you._
> 
> _2\. If you're looking for porny, dirty, uninhibited sex, this ain't it. If you're okay with the neurotic musings of a dude having fluffy, vanilla sex with someone he luuuurves, then read on._
> 
> _3\. This is a missing moment from Chapter 9 of my fic_ Irrational, _and some of the dialogue is lifted straight from Ch. 9; however, you don't have to have read that fic in order to understand this. They're in love, and they're gonna bone -- there, now you're up to speed. (But if you have read_ Irrational, _you might enjoy the parallels between what's going on here and what Audrey was thinking in Ch. 9 leading up to this scene.)_
> 
> _4\. Yes, I do have this headcanon about wizard sex. (You'll know it when you see it.)_

* * *

* * *

Audrey’s legs are just about Percy’s favorite things in the world.

They may not be the longest, nor the slenderest, but they’re shapely and she’s always showing them off. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her in jeans or trousers; the rest of the time it’s dresses and skirts, nipping in at her waist, skimming her hips and stopping just above the knee. She favors high heels, things that look to be from an era before either of them were born — adorned with straps and bows, on anyone else they might be fussy, but Audrey is never fussy, simply… _feminine._ Percy’s not entirely sure what he’ll do with himself when winter rolls around, chasing Audrey’s legs inside trousers and boots. 

He especially loves when she stands on tiptoe to reach for something that’s not high up enough to bother with magic. Sometimes she kicks one foot out behind her — and whether she does it to keep her balance or to drive him crazy, he has no idea, but either way it seems to be working.

Those damned Ministry robes are a criminal offense, and he now has a new reason to loathe them, the way they cover up her legs and every other part of her lovely, soft shape. He’s always preferred Muggle clothes anyway; they simply look better, man or woman, he’ll never be convinced otherwise -- but maybe sometimes he’s grateful for the fact that robes are much more forgiving than trousers on those occasions when his imagination works a little _too_ well.

A few days ago, Audrey leaned over his shoulder at his desk to ponder his crossword puzzle.

“Have I ever told you, you smell so nice,” she whispered -- unnecessarily, as they were alone -- in that demure way of hers, before suggesting an answer to 42-Across.

She has, in fact, told him that before. But it still didn’t stop him nearly breaking his quill in half.

_Pull yourself together, Weasley._

Percy’s been in a very rough way these days.

It certainly doesn’t help that he hasn’t slept with anyone in nearly seven months. Not that he’s counting.

Actually, there was that one time… but he’s not exactly proud of himself for that one; best forget it entirely. So, seven months (not that he’s counting).

It’s this fact that makes Friday and Saturday nights, the hours spent on Audrey’s sofa, pure torture.

That, and the way she sighs against his mouth when he slides his hand under her blouse like a teenager (all right, maybe Audrey’s legs are his second favorite things in the world).

That, and the way she runs her fingers up his neck and into his hair.

That, and the way she straddles him when she’s really getting into it — top unbuttoned, bra peeking through, one strap pushed off her shoulder, and his hand sliding up her thigh.

Seven fucking months, and she feels so good in his arms.

But his hand always stops when it finds a zipper or reaches the top of her thigh — because he’s better than his lizard brain, always has been, or he’d like to think so, anyway, and he isn’t willing to use Audrey. Truth be told, Percy doesn’t like the idea of using anyone; he still subscribes to the unfashionable idea that sex actually means something — or should, anyway (even Percy doesn’t live up to his own standards sometimes).

And he can’t take her to bed, not when there’s so much she still doesn’t know about him. He can’t do that to her, and he can’t do that to himself.

He’s begun to think there’s nothing he can’t talk to her about… except for this one minor detail of, well, everything he’s done wrong in his entire life. But he’s managed to convince himself that it’s still far too early for such a deep reveal -- it’s a Serious Talk in the nature of _What are your feelings on kids?_ \-- and even though he’s found that he can no longer imagine a life without Audrey in it, he’s positive she can’t possibly be feeling the same.

He tries not to dwell on the idea that it’s really fear that’s stopping him, tries not to take for granted that this will finally be the thing she judges him for — that this will be where her staggering compassion and acceptance end.

_She’ll leave you,_ says a small voice he tries to bury in the back of his mind. _You know she will._

_And you’re a coward for not telling her._

Day after day goes by, and it’s just one more date, just one more drink, just one more harmless snog and fumble. Just one more look, one more touch, one more conversation that confirms she knows him like the back of her hand; yet one more moment where he realizes he’d do just about anything she asked. That’s all it is. You know — perfectly casual.

Today it’s just a Quidditch match.

She’s wearing a blue and yellow dress that ripples in the breeze, caressing the curve of her hip and thigh. She’s clinging to his arm in the stands, like she trusts him to keep her from falling. She doesn’t give a damn about the sport but she’s hanging on every word he says.

For the better part of an hour, he’s holding her around the waist, murmuring in her ear — explaining a load of things about Quidditch that he’s frankly so far beyond caring about at this point — increasingly distracted by the way her dark hair tickles his cheek as she leans back against him. And as he revels in feeling almost the entire length of her body pressed against his, it occurs to him that it must be painfully obvious to her what’s happening inside his jeans.

_Fucking rude, Weasley._

He sees her home, and she’s staring at him with a nerve-rattling intensity for someone usually so mild, like there’s something she wants but won’t ask, and when she kisses him with longing bordering on greed he’s only too happy to respond, winding one hand in her hair.

Stupid glasses, they’re always in the way, and when the enthusiastic snogging causes her nose to bump the frames he removes them in annoyance, setting them on a shelf without paying attention.

“Forget them,” is all he can manage when she starts to point out they’ve fallen to the floor, drawing her mouth back to his. He’ll buy a hundred pairs if he has to; this particular second is too important to be worrying about cracked lenses.

At last she breaks away, and he’s not at all prepared for what happens next; perhaps that’s why he doesn’t stand a chance at resisting it.

“Stay.”

It’s half command, half plea, and as far as Percy’s concerned at this very moment, what the lady wants, the lady gets. She’s looking at him with unmistakable desire, and he thinks that if she looked at him this way and asked him to dive headfirst off a cliff he would do it.

The problem is that Percy’s brain has suddenly decided to pack up and go on holiday. This is not nearly as pleasant as it sounds. At the moment he can hardly add two plus two, let alone muster anything resembling suavity.

Maybe if he just stands here staring like an idiot, everything will sort itself out to the ultimate satisfaction of all parties.

Maybe not.

_“How did you die, Percy?”_

_“It’s the damnedest thing, I literally forgot how to shag, and to save myself the embarrassment I just stood there until I was one hundred twenty years old.”_

Pushing through a haze that feels as though the inside of his head has been replaced with candy floss, he becomes vaguely aware of his own foolishly eager nodding; he’s jolted back to reality by Audrey’s soft lips on his, her hands gripping the front of his pullover as she draws him towards her room. This is an awkward dance, as neither wants to break away -- it would almost be a crime to do so -- and in the course of getting to their destination they’ve bumped into a table, nearly broken a lamp, and almost tripped twice, but they cross the threshold in one piece, Audrey laughing breathlessly against his cheek.

She smells amazing, like a home he never wants to leave; his hands begin to roam yearningly, and he thinks the meaning of life must be underneath this dress.

“Audrey,” he whispers against her neck, without really thinking it through — the truth is, her name just feels so good in his mouth.

“Hmm?” she asks, and he’s trapped, paralyzed, a million things running through his mind at once.

_You’re beautiful._

_You’re too good for me._

_There are things I haven’t told you._

_Please,_ please _put your hand down my pants right now._

_I love you—_

Jesus, where did that one come from? Now there’s a way to make a proper fool of himself.

“Nothing.” It’s a lie five times over, but he blinks and it’s gone as she presses up against him, lips hot on his, pinning him to the wall in her room.

Holy shit.

_Holy shit._

Percy was not planning on this, and his mind reels with conflicting demands, and it doesn’t help that the playbook has been gathering dust for more than half a year.

Do this thing. Don’t forget to do that thing. But she’s shy — does she even want you to do that thing? Anyway, she’s not being so shy right now. Take note of what she likes and what she doesn’t. Compliment her, you absolute tosser, what’s wrong with you? — but everything he can think of sounds so trite coming out of his mouth, no matter how true.

Touch her. Touch her absolutely everywhere, right this second, before she disappears into thin air. But also, slow down.

Slow down, slow down, _slow down._

If his brain would stop exploding for a minute he could just _think._

Don’t be boring… but also, don’t be a goddamn savage about it.

If one thing is clear to him, it’s that you don’t just have a screw with Audrey Greene, you _make love_ to Audrey Greene. The first time, at least. The first five times. Percy’s imagined this scenario at great length; actually, he’s imagined this and about fifty other scenarios… some much less polite than the others.

But it hasn’t exactly come up in ordinary conversation: _So, darling, the first time I nail you, how would you like it?_

His thoughts are interrupted when she silently Summons a condom from her sister’s room, with flushed cheeks and a shrug as she catches it in her hand and tosses it onto the bed.

She wasn’t counting on this, either.

Perfect. Make a joke. Thank God for flatmates.

You’re an idiot, that sounds terrible. Moment’s passed, don’t say a word. 

Percy’s entire life is really an endless series of telling himself to shut his gob (and rarely listening).

His shirt removed, her hands are sliding up his back and he’s sliding down the zipper of her dress, nudging it off her shoulders and over her hips until it drops to the floor.

He doesn’t miss how she folds her arm across her stomach as if to hide it, and when he takes her hand to guide it away with a little shake of his head, the compliment springs from his mouth without resistance because it’s as honest and plain as saying the sky is blue.

“You’re beautiful. You're perfect.”

Her cheeks flush more deeply and she averts her eyes upwards. “Think you need your glasses.”

With a whispered laugh, he returns his attention to her neck just below her ear. “I’m short-sighted, I can see you just fine.”

Somehow, the pace has slowed itself — maybe it was him, maybe it was her, maybe it was both of them together — and he’s working at a spot at the front of her throat that she seems to like, slipping one bra strap off her shoulder as she makes delicious sighing sounds and undoes his belt. But when she pulls him against her by the belt loops and leans her entire body into his, he’s certain that steam is about to start rising from his skin. His hand slips down the side of her knickers, running from her hip to her bum, and aside from the sighs still escaping her, the only sound is the wild pounding in his ears.

He whispers some random thing that must sound truly inane when he unclasps her bra, brushing her nipples with his thumbs, rolling them gently between his fingertips. This appears to make her very happy, and she begins to massage the front of his jeans — which is like Christmas come early, really, but if she does too much of that, something else might be coming early as well. Percy manages this issue by playfully pinning her against the wall, because if there’s one thing he’s good at it, it’s being bossy when he’s a nervous wreck.

Time seems to have slowed almost to a standstill when he trails one unhurried hand from her cheek down her neck, around the curve of her breast, over that spot where her hip meets her stomach -- no idea how he came up with that move, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. 

There’s that look again, the one that would send him leaping off the highest cliffs in existence if she told him to, and when she rocks her hips against his hand and gives an eager nod, his fingers dive under the lace of her knickers.

He feels himself blushing — of course, he does, story of his life; he’s twenty-five and has done this plenty of times before, but being a Weasley means turning red at the slightest provocation. But it’s all right, because she’s closing her eyes, gripping his arm and the waistband of his jeans as if not to let him get away.

She’s soft and warm and wetter by the second, and when his fingers begin to curl and pinpoint the right spot she breathes, “Lower,” and he obeys.

The sounds she makes are soft and breathy, heartbreakingly sweet — she’s never had to raise her voice above a murmur to command his attention, and he supposes this should be no different — and whenever he finds a motion or a pace she likes, she lets out a low, devastated _“Yes.”_

She trembles and tenses, a crinkle forms between her eyebrows, and she’s gripping his arm like a vise. When she upturns her face to him, murmuring soundlessly, he leans his forehead against hers, twining his free hand in her hair; she only breaks away to clamp her hand reflexively over her mouth when she comes, moaning into her palm, and it’s all he can do not to peel her hand away.

It’s hard to say whether her eyes or smile are more vibrant when she looks up at him, and he feels himself flushing brighter, if that’s at all possible, but if she finds that pitiful she doesn’t say; at this moment she seems intent on tearing off his jeans.

Nothing really compares to the feeling of stretching out above a woman on a bed, and while everything about him feels on fire at this point, he draws it out as best he can, savoring the feeling of Audrey under him, looking up at him, running her hands over everything she can reach. Including that.

Once again: holy shit.

Pinning her hands, fingers laced with hers, he nips at her neck a few times, drawing a laugh from her that sounds like honey, and his own laugh follows. When he takes one nipple into his mouth, her hands fist themselves in his hair; part of him could frankly stay here forever (confirmed: _these_ are his favorite things in the world), but she’s starting to writhe beneath him in a way that’s unbearable.

He’s overtaken by the thought that he’d like to kiss her when he first slides into her, but as soon as he does (seven. fucking. months.) he ducks his head with a shuddering exhalation.

“Oh my god.”

Sex noises are another thing Percy has opinions about. They all make you sound ridiculous -- well, not Audrey, she’s lovely, and he could listen to that all day -- most women generally, even -- but a bloke? And him specifically? Every option just feels massively foolish when he hears it in his own voice. He supposes he shouldn’t be bothering to think about it, but he can’t help it; it’s like trying not to think of a dragon. There’s grunting, that’s clever; spewing profanities is crass but sometimes necessary; describing what you’re doing in detail seems… aggressive for this moment; and of course, there’s always repeating the word “Yeah” over and over, because _that’s_ attractive.

But if you’re quiet, you might be a sociopath.

It’s a twisted joke that the most fantastic-feeling act in the world is so atrociously undignified.

But Audrey seems pleased with his initial reaction and draws his face back to hers. After a few feverish kisses across her lips and jaw, he has to give in again, bowing his head with incoherent moans. Everything about her feels perfect, inside and out, and the slow, deliberate pace he’s begun is only serving to drive himself mad and is quickly falling by the wayside

Maybe it’s all this time without anyone. Maybe it’s the time spent with Audrey, longing for all of her. Maybe it’s the way she’s wrapping her legs around him, pulling him into her like she can’t get enough. Maybe it’s just _her._ Maybe it’s the soft, rhythmic sighs escaping her. Maybe it’s...

His mind collapsing, he says the only thing he’s been wanting to say these days.

“Oh, my god, _Audrey_.” (Her name really does taste incredible in his mouth.)

She shivers, and though it takes every ounce of willpower he has, he lifts his body and slows, his hand brushing her cheek.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes!” Bright eyes, a crinkle between her eyebrows, and a smile tugging at one corner of her lips. Her voice is an exuberant whisper. “Yes, don’t stop, please.” Their lips meet as he thrusts again, parting only long enough for her to plead breathlessly: “More.”

And what the lady wants, the lady gets.

It’s his turn to shiver when she trails her fingernails down his back, a shudder that rolls through his entire body, escaping in a ragged groan. And then he feels it: the warm crackle across his skin like tiny bolts of lightning, a sensation like millions of fuzzy pins and needles. He feels it absolutely everywhere, and when she lets out a gasp of surprise and joy, he knows she felt it, too, in all the right places.

That’s the thing about magic: it tends to creep out when you’re losing control.

(Percy’s never shattered any vases or anything — not since he was seventeen and didn’t know what the hell he was doing — but he did once pleasantly surprise one Muggle partner who didn’t think a woman could really come _that way_.)

The sensation lingers for him, intensifying everything, and it seems it does for her, because she’s digging her fingers into his shoulders, her face screwed up, murmuring incoherently once more, as he pins her hip with one hand and drives harder and more deliberately. This turn of events is very exciting, indeed, and is doing wonders for his ego, but he’s not entirely sure how much longer he can stop himself -- 

This time, she does not cover her mouth, and when she lets out a cry and tightens around him, the electric lights in the room flicker once.

One last absurd thought goes through his mind --

_Proper job, Weasley!_

\-- before it goes blissfully and brilliantly blank.

When he props himself on his elbows to catch his breath and study her, he’s not sure what he expects to see her do, but it’s better than he could have imagined: eyes alight, she brings her hand to her mouth and lets out an astonished giggle, a giddy tremble. A stupid grin comes over him and his face grows hotter — which is inane, frankly, considering what’s just transpired between them; they’re a bit beyond modesty now.

“Well. Likewise,” he says, like a complete and utter dimwit, but funny enough, he doesn’t care.

Percy once read a Muggle magazine article about a theory that sex releases something called chemicals in your brain. Substances _inside your brain_ that trick you into feeling happy. It’s occurred to him that this is simply a convenient way of trying to explain away feelings that are terrifying -- feelings like the ones he’s having now, lying here entwined, his hand on her thigh, as she traces constellations in the freckles on his arms. This right here -- all of it -- _this_ is his favorite thing in the world.

He’s nearly asleep when his mind starts making lists.

Two kids; maybe three -- girls, because boys are beastly…

House in Devon, definitely, because city living is wretched…

Audrey’s face the last thing he sees before he falls asleep at night…

Holy shit...

_Holy shit._


End file.
